


Menace to Society

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, at least while poirot is losing, monopoly's arbitrary rules are an insult to rational beings everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The opening scene in The Lost Mine, told from Hercule Poirot's point of view.  The fact that there hasn't yet been a murder actually precipitated by playing Monopoly is something astonishing in and of itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Menace to Society

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Poirot had no objection to harmless amusements. The occasional walk in a garden, under the right circumstances, or a pleasant stroll through a museum were always good for the mind. And even games of skill were delightful, as long as the skill was worthy of being refined. But this…

The rattle of the dice in its cup was oppressively loud in the silence of the apartment. Poirot tipped the little bucket over, calculated the dot quantity, and counted out the taps of his little metal top hat as it trotted eight steps across the board to land on the proscribed tile. 

Hastings considered the move for a moment before turning his eyes to Poirot.

“Community Chest,” Hastings reported, staring Poirot down. The man might’ve thought he was aiming for something toneless and impassive but he didn’t quite make it. 

Poirot stared right back. For goodness’ sake. Of course Hastings would become so terribly competitive over a children’s game. It had permitted just enough of the vagaries of Fate to be exciting to a man who liked a wager. What was the merit in such a thing, hmm? There were not even real stakes, beyond the thrill of victory.

Hastings flicked up the little yellow Community Chest card.

“You’ve won second prize in a beauty contest.” Those grey-green eyes fixed him with a remarkably steely look. Poirot lifted his eyebrows a little. Second place? And more to the point: were magnates known for entering beauty contests? This game had made no mention at the outset of being set in some kind of fantasy world.

“Collect ten pounds,” Hastings muttered. As the banker, his duty demanded that he take up a slip of white paper illustrated in the style of a bank note. He pressed it to the game board and Poirot laid it atop the small stack of crisp notes before him. 

“Thank you very much, Hastings,” Poirot replied. Unable to resist, he added, “It would appear that skill plays but a little part in this game, eh?” 

The look Hastings gave him did a little more to defy easy recognition. He looked very cold-blooded.

“It’s all about skill! What to buy, and when. Where to put your property.”

Oh, yes. Hastings did fancy himself something in the way of venture capitalist, didn’t he? Perhaps it was impolitic for Poirot to point out the many ridiculous components of the game. 

Hastings began to shake the dice in their cup and puffed a breath on them as if to cool them. He held Poirot’s with those pale, clear eyes. 

Poirot blinked. Such concentration and focus! Hastings did have the eyes of a hawk, when he wanted to. Perhaps that was always why his head was in the clouds.

Hastings blew into the cup again, gazed unwavering. Poirot watched Hastings watch him, from his clear eyes to his pink lips, pursed to blow, and felt a muscle in his jaw twinge. He looked away, annoyed and a little overwarm. Tch! Made to play a child’s game, and with such a competitive partner. Better a nice game of whist à la couleur, which blended sheer happenstance with legitimate skill in a far more elegant pattern. There was something strangely vulgar about dice.

Out they came. The dice bounced across the board and Hastings danced his shoe around to Whitechapel Road. Nothing of interest there, yet. 

“I’ll buy it,” Hastings reported, making a pursed-lip little moue of self-satisfaction as he snapped the sixty pounds carelessly in the coffers of the bank. “Your move, old man.” 

Poirot remained manfully silent, even in the face of this ridiculous gloating. For all his so-English modesty, Hastings completely lacked the certain je ne sais quoi that made for a truly exemplary standard of humility.

After all, he was leaving such a glaring opening in his opportunities for advancement! Poirot would soon be making money hand over fist. 

Poirot turned his attention his ledger and considered his finances. Yes, this should just work. He looked up at Hastings.

“I will build a hotel on Fenchurch Street,” he said, tranquil as one often found oneself, when on the cusp of certain victory. 

Hastings made an exasperated noise and gave Poirot a look of exquisite condescension. “You can’t build a hotel on a railway station.”

Poirot bristled as much from the smug tone as from the insipid response. “Don’t be absurd, Hastings! There are plenty of hotels at railway stations.” 

“But…” Hastings lost his haughty expression with delicious rapidity. “But it’s not in the rules.”

“Well, then, Hastings, the rules are wrong!” Poirot snapped. 

Hastings didn’t have much to say to that, Poirot noted with grim satisfaction -- he dropped his eyes and continued to huff and puff on the dice like he intended to blow them down. Poirot glared for an instant or two, but it was of no avail. The hotel was not erected on a spot so convenient to travelers. When the game was completed, Poirot bade Hastings a terse good night and took the rules with him to peruse before he fell asleep. 

Ridiculous little game. How did this sort of thing tend towards domestic felicity, hmm? Even as a demonstration of an unsound economic policy, the game itself was a threat to the very fabric of civilized society! If every husband in the country grew as condescending as Hastings when they played this game, well. Scarce wonder that Poirot had plenty of work to keep him in the black! Of far more minor affronts to good sense were broken marriages and dead spouses made. 

Poirot read as much as he could stand before putting the sheet of rules firmly on the nightstand and closing the light. He frowned, staring at the ceiling for a few moments before shaking it off and closing his eyes. 

It was lucky that Poirot had the very even keel. This game was all emotion and risk. There was no place in it for those who took a measured, principled approach to their finances. 

Scarce wonder that Hastings so enjoyed it. It did seem to reward impulsive behavior. And luck, like all figures of superstition, was unscrupulous and easily swayed by a little breath and a little warm flesh. Poirot was not so susceptible: he had been learning the insane rules, this time, and it was all too clear that the game had yet to be tried by one who actually understood the value of cautious, considered investments. 

Well. Poirot would get him next time.


End file.
